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Date: Sat, 1 Feb 1992 10:30:37 EST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Mollusk Infrastructure <CHEATING@SBCCVM.BITNET>
Subject: mesallied syphilitic
"this is but a clipped design" -- of course I'm right, jaspersive gaze upon
our (?) fungal distractions even in a disintegration mode -- pride of the
upkeep of the unwashed, illiterate or no. But I certainly cannot allow it
to drop as white paint upon the sidewalk but not on the grates and into the
sacred sewer "of our discontent" (flourish!): Yr WIFE?!? Bona fide dandy,
son, & don't give up the slurp 'cuz les autres may not seek piquancy. I
seek full extent: May you touch yourself anytime? Wicker baskets crammed
with olives, grapes, chocolate, and onward to Crab Orchard Lake to winter
amidst disgruntled Canadian geese? Costuming on Wednesdays for parlories
(charades, improvs, cross-dressing), taped for mail order interchange
w/other lyke-minded domestic units (or is it for smooth sales, pimping
self-promotion)? Or mere commodity speculation (playing our song)?
Notker & Kersten, sittin' in a tree: the reason I pester is tantamountto
Tibetan-climbing for palimpsest-draped cavernous subterranean dwellers:
Illumination. Straight up: there's this other node I've been kinda
eyeballing with certain erotodynamics underfoot constantly (next to
smoldering outlets and faulty surge protectors -- good thing I'm not real
I'd be dead!), and, well, see, I'm just not clear on the ritual (luminoid,
yes, I know, DAF, just a minute) involved. Did you give the Enemy time to
put her clothes on? (The opposite applies.) Did you serenade her with
power drills and jackhammers? Take her to McDonald's? Do you ever forget
that you're supposed to be in love (I know I sure do)? Take turns doing
dishes? taking out the garbage? having affairs? raising children? I need
to know so H760 (damn, now everyone'll know) will choose me, me, ME!
Any and all assistance would be greatly appreciated. In return for your
help, how about a remaindered boxed ed. of v. 1-5 of Live at the Knitting
Factory? Such accomplishment far and away surpasses my feebleminded rose-
in-one-hand-diamond-in-the-other-on-one-knee-prostrate-before-milady
getting nowhere fast (which, at one time, was just the way she liked it).
I turn to you because of yr many deaths... Lycidas... extant vomit... and
because the next logical choice, King DAF, has let the sociological impulse
carry him far afield into analyses whereby we can determine inter alia
within +/-.5% deviation the likelihood that she will file in NY state
divorce court before the turn of the fiscal year whereas I just want to
know how to have a Hollywood stamp of approval... and no, I don't expect a
response
M. (CHEATING@HUNIATZ... someday...)
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Date: Sat, 1 Feb 1992 18:58:11 EST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Mollusk Infrastructure <CHEATING@SBCCVM.BITNET>
Subject: What I should have said (triad insinuation).
Relentless: a triptych of (victim) portraiture and I'm rewarded with
wearying querisome mode (seven (7) ?'s), though not mine, never mine, but
rather yr synaxarion (may I please have the laurel wreath? circumstantial
evidence, you know): Lascelles proves that, firmly; no retrograde for our
tale, steeped in surmounting evidence, not even harmolodics: for future
reference I had off-kiltered Sir Patrick in guarantee of our happy
homestead (ensure the asphalt meets transport-bearing standards) but no
record-rejiggering: we're bogged in a paludous quandary, baiting athwart a
vega of forensics: my funerary alba, biting off the new day's dawning,
treacle unguent: no longer willing to spall off the dross to fen me in a
warren, the story to be eviscerated, undone and pocked. Mastheaded and
targeted by her pharos, the imminence of impact does not my cliched lovely
eyes leave untorn. O \c/em jsme to mluvili? Ano, yr back to the wall,
emerald sleuth barnacled after rum-binge and mickey-slip: in abdication, I
owe you a kingdom, and mirthlessly you agglutinate my supposed
desultoriness. "[M]y offer of the twelfth of October": but this is most
certainly and very, very wrong: empty space gapped only with my warning
(unheeded, unheralded). Shored and shoreless, yr manifold trivial delecti
(Rap On, Malachi) may bait M's trap, cast off as the Enemy in yr HISTORY;
how unthankful that one of yr most beautiful letters should be one of such
rage (Mecca thrust).
Tactile: lest, during trenchant plinking of Cheating's synonyms
(plagiarist-poets perpetrate hazards exterminate out!), you (sans
avertissement) split the chintz-covered curtains, day in dead-stop, and
declaim the wan lachrymal plots districted in border towns where the Enemy
scaffolds its scagiola with no shame in saecula saeculorum (my view),
noting the tentacled fratches in which we've arreared (the circus an Irish
cumbrance), you may rather plait (descry) your slighting love ("those
Cursed beyond endurance cannot themselves in full adequacy Curse"): no
longer soothed by the savaged algorhythm echoing yr haggard syncope (such
propitious backbeat), you metamorphosize late-night-to-late-night quotients
into perpetual confinements of firmament functions (the desert island that
so attracts the emigre tourist crowd): the rule-book (avail. for fifteen
(15) Federal Reserve Notes) has long-since been scragged and coked; only
this charred fragment, "toss of coin will take place within three minutes
of kickoff in center", was pronged. And my predilection gave way to
Washington, 37-24, a stunted ply for Cooke's incorporated meditations on
public policy: if your business continues to fail, attend to the
flickering, trembling steps which enable a glide-to post pattern to split
the chintz-covered defense on this level[led] playing field. "Monday--
Speak with H about wearing a hairnet to eliminate the complaints from the
Ladies' League of Law and Order". The Dream I'd delved once, divining
whirls of excommunication -- you were there, and you told them, "Que Sera
Sera," and you told them, "it's pronounced 'haitch'," and you told them,
"you must be exhausted; leave the door open," and you told me, "So, one
day, you're gonna feel as watched as i do," and I do, and I do, & I do.
Acerbic: Asceticism: Morbidity? Ha! Bere'shit: True, true, troubadour,
"Solve me the riddle, for you know the tale": 1278, one trussed up for each
year above the millennium for rooking Londoners, yetzer hara provoking a
cordon sanitaire and the Enemy always knows the self-same outposts. (Our
Time Traveller would do well to bypass as we may not always be able to
afford sanctuary.) Couldn't get ahead: Bertrans' brilliance pebbled in
resonant footfalls, glazed and glossed revealed at last (one more time for
the record), and O how you've grown to besmirch it, the Louisburgh journey
its own homeward reward, while gleeful in anticipation that the past may
have been finally initiated and no longer dally in teleplay but lo! no!
someone (never stepping forth into that masquerade of what passed for
friendship so long (Smile) as never asked to participate in brinkmanship,
but instead a terra incognita) watches over you; "quite so". CHEATING,
sedulous, is not to be motived, it does not DO anything @anywhere, because
it does not exist, a failure of reference, noise noise noise, din din din,
supping lager as the row sets in: speak my name (flight of fancy) and I
well remain: Die Vollendung der Liebe. I would briskly unravelling assist
but for the H.-monikered armory. Bere'shit: commotion of gauntlets, heavy
machinery, spelling, and cognoscible aims (cool!). Redactor Redux: the
conundrum evanesced and engagement of. "!A Haven for the Nonplussed!A
Cloister for the Jaded!" revisited: I smiled at the hope that, once
consigned to the diet of worms, you&I might brave to go on ... more foolI.
In verisimilitude, I recant nothing.
========================================================================
Date: Sat, 1 Feb 1992 00:00:01 EST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
Subject: The Best Lines of January 1992
everything i know i learned in a herbert novel long out of print
plenty of shit and dark in which to grow."
eight hundred years more. Abraham, one of the Abrahams, the whole story is a
ned stupidity where is Abomination District, where in the West they onetimehad
food which was contaminated with a minute amount of the poison,
had been used on a blowfish and had not been cleaned. Bush ate the
*Burp*
Ur of the Chaldeans though there weren't going to be any Chaldeans forminimum
mail-search facility suffices, and you were a historian only if I wished
"wit" rather than "initiative", as a corpse would remain and the neighbours
"Mommy I want fries!".
can't come soon enough. Requiescant in Pace, Clown.
those Conde Nast transcripts. Nothing changes, Cheating at Sbccvm: you're
replica of Battleship America, trawling the classifieds for a newer, better,
profit if our lives depended on it, exports world's worst disposable razorsand
royal family. The Kuwaiti ambassador claims that everyone was well
lips, colder than the day the embalmers knife will sing them to pieces and
I believe in Ronald, the father, and the holy spirit of convenient
affirms, backed by the might of the French National Assembly (1791), that
that our souls are whole out there? come come away jacob come ephraim out
USAmerican commercial channels. The ruling Conservative Party, which
its popularity.)
whole segment of the e-population. Now we will have to depend upon
Ronald McDonald, my stony brooklings, is a fucking sideshow. These bizarre
even the Colonel himself were finally cast into the vat of
Star did listen to the words of the almighty Clown, and lo, the
T.
Or is it a drawsome business? You vaunt an unsound will (or, for life,
with silencer pistols including notorious as-Saffah himself whom Ipersonally
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Date: Mon, 3 Feb 1992 18:29:17 EST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Dan Boyd <consp04@>
Subject: Best Lines
My score this month: two of the Best Lines were mine; this one:
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food which was contaminated with a minute amount of the poison,
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and this one:
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had been used on a blowfish and had not been cleaned. Bush ate the
----------------------------------------------------------------------
I'm so proud...
-- Dan
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Date: Mon, 3 Feb 1992 22:32:18 EST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
Comments: <Parser> W: Invalid RFC822 field -- "Yes,
it is time again for.... :". Rest of header flushed.
Comments: Resent-From: Sophophobia the Elder <E010>
From: Sophophobia the Elder <E010>
Subject: Eggs
SOPHOPHOBIA'S BIG HUGE LARGE COLLECTIVE E-POSTING!!!!!!!
(Some material not recommended for the literal minded.)
Quote of the week: "God has, you know, standards."
--Dr. Ladelle McWhorter
Ph.D., Philosophy
So there I AM, lying on the couch, when this big
hairy smelly opossum comes in and says: "So what's this
God thing all about?"
Like what am I supposed to do? I ain't no burning bush, or some
pentecostal dove. You know, I wanna say, *Hey pal, read Spinoza
or something, and get your claws off my end-table!*, but I can't
say that, not to this beastie. So I set down my Guiness Stout,
lower the volume on the ole' crankbox, and prepare for Marsupial
Metaphysics.
But that's not how it's really supposed to go, so forget it.
The politically correct term for "Jihad" is "Socio-Theological
Agression."
The Key and The Gate, brothers and sisters, and then you're
home free. A walk through e-space will cleanse those astral
pores. And how many people really ever got Carroll's joke
about the "smile without a face" (you know, the cat--not
Schrodinger's)?
Well, I'm cutting this episode short. See you in a week.
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Date: Tue, 4 Feb 1992 10:20:54 EST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: HAG
So, the world is supposed to be drowning in it's own filth,
dangerous, evil, uncaring, ugly, slime-ridden, full of hate and
misery and anger and despair and cruelty, peopled with blase
wickedness, aren't we all cool, we know all about the
darkness, ho-hum...and yet.
So, to prove our worthiness to join the Club Cool we must write
about fuckshitbuggerassbitchdickfagnazi and
maggotsgutsbloodputrescence, and spill out reams of the
senseless because only senselessness reflects reality...and yet.
So, sentiment is a commodity packaged and sold by Hallmark,
happiness is an advertising scheme to sell hamburgers, love is
only titillation pushing car sales and toothpaste, compassion is
only a campaign slogan...and yet.
So, the eyes to behold beauty are controlled by a few,
enthusiasm is a disease of the unenlightened, faith is a
delusion of the oppressed and ignorant, hope is a plastic carrot
tied to the end of a stick wielded by the manipulators...and yet.
And yet...though we may fight against it with all our will the
world's beauty sometimes breaks through our defenses,
goodness and joy and peace--for all the beating they've taken
over the years--still find their way into our lives sometimes.
And yet...writers and poets do not always have to bend to
fashion and write that which is devoid of beauty, music,
harmony, complexity and order need not be constrictive but
can offer a wonderful freedom.
And yet...sentiment, happiness, love, and compassion have a
life of their own away from Madison Avenue.
And yet...beauty is there for the beholding, enthusiasm, faith,
hope have solid grounding in reality.
Oh yeah...right, you say, your voice dripping with fashionable
sarcasm, your eyes clouded and oh so sneeringly dulled.
Scorn if you must but it is right. Just because all these things
have been twisted, misused, coated with poison, held up to
ridicule, burned into our minds as deceiving, just because
we've been taught scepticism and unbelief, just because we've
been told what the facts are, doesnUt mean we have to give up
truth, doesn't mean we have to believe the world is flat, doesnUt
mean we have to believe the universe is a rotting corpse, dead
and worthless.
I'm tired of being told that not only is the world impersonally
evil, but there never was such a thing as good, that greed is the
only reality, that balance, purity, righteousness are merely
slogans used to cover wrongs, that believing all these things
simply signifies naivete or ignorance. I renounce the evening
news, the tabloids, the docudramas, those who would control
my vision of the world. I embrace the joy of a world complex
and simple, harmonious even in discord, determined though
rambling, painful and thrilling, strengthening not
debilitating.
Wake up, partake. Dost thou think, because thou art glum and
suspicious, there shall be no more cakes and ale for you as
well?
- Aptly named
========================================================================
Date: Tue, 04 Feb 92 18:21:16 CST
From: GR4302
To: Sbrhym-l@SBCCVM
Subject: mullosk on physic holiday
upkeep? tsk tsk old man. don't be a fool. As for the rest, let's just
leave it at that. Crab Orchard Lake is too nuked for grapes and olives,
try Tabouly at Cedar Creek. Crab Orchard Lake was toxicized during WWII
for expediency sake (r great god (damn!)) so when they built Marion they
made sure the water would come from the contaminated sector. This is no
bull you watch they'll close the whole damn thing down in five years.
Sometime we go with Anita (I assume you know her too) to float on the
pontoon fish and barbque at the dam end (other side of the damn end).
I hate the place. Try East Pamona. And hah I can touch myself in ways
I bet you can't, latched or no. But for the advice: Give Everything!
Nothing held back. First you must realize that the male equals the big
yod zero! Yes you must be the representative to the Bank, we live in a
patriarchy you know, but man who wouldn't throw himself in front of a
train for a woman is a worthless lump of shit (even its moving!) With
blood coming out, etcetera, I mean you should already know the one to ask:
Flaming Carrot (not Bob the asshole who draws him tho!) If you need any
back issue wisdom then you can ask me. I know DAF is waxed. He forgot to
figure in the bronze age natural gas pipes (why I don't know since he seems
to be privvy to Israeli excavations of the place and even the publicdocuments
mention it) that made Soddom & Gomorrah (watch out 1997! watch out greyday
dying in a pit of shit and money!) the biggest exporter of swords andimporter
of decadence since civilization left the New world for the Old BUTeventually
blew the whole damn thing to hell. They must've used just the triggering
device--it would only make sense and be probably amazingly effective, even
to the rendering of humans into their various mineral salts. The warhead
is still at large and that's probably where's he's been. He'll probably
not survive this one as I predicted 7 weeks ago. Oh and also get her the
hell out of East Anglia--the Ghost of Vortigern is due to start butchering
astrologists and radio personalities in March.
grgr43430202
Labeo didn't beat the man to the punch. Balabus wrote the book on Hollywood
a thousand years ago. Babalus is a lost goat, his only good leg broken.(NOT!)
You only know too much for your own good and so you know I'm no assasin.
So who the fuck are you? Tell me where I was born and win a cookie.Siriusly.
Oh and forget anything about that stint on nm-l, it never worked for money
or diversion.
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Date: Wed, 5 Feb 1992 09:06:02 -0500
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: <TIMFIELD>
Subject: aesthetics aint dead
...it has just been mortally wounded by a cynical
literary underground, eh?
The point was that to counterbalance all of the love,
beauty, and grace pouring out of most word processors
we have to dig our snouts into the shit and dark like
pigs hunting for truffles. Life isn't all roses and kisses-
without-tongues and it certainly isn't the way Jane
Austin wrote it. If you want to write something good or
even if you just want to think properly you have to let
the bad squirt into your narrow little mind.
T. (in a new and more southerly location)
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Date: Wed, 5 Feb 1992 09:53:44 EST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: hg <HAG>
Subject: Re: aesthetics aint dead
In-Reply-To: Message of Wed,
5 Feb 1992 09:06:02 -0500 from <<TIMFIELD>>
On Wed, 5 Feb 1992 09:06:02 -0500 <<TIMFIELD>> said:
>...it has just been mortally wounded by a cynical
>literary underground, eh?
>
Ah, precisely the points...mortally wounded? Piffle! Cynical literary
underground...bit of an oxymoron. Cynical literature, cynical news,
cynical art, cynical music, even the biggest influence on the masses
(and this includes you, too) of the last 40 years: cynical TV!
Underground? Underground? The sarcastic and caustic miasma isn't
underground--it's the main stream...it's all around us...we breathe
it everyday. Open your eyes and take a sniff--you can't miss it. You're
just so used to it you don't see it.
>The point was that to counterbalance all of the love,
>beauty, and grace pouring out of most word processors
>we have to dig our snouts into the shit and dark like
>pigs hunting for truffles.
You certainly don't need to dig, you're breathing it right now.
Funny you should mention it...ever look at e-mail postings? When
they're not full of flames they're reacted to as if they were.
I've seen more anger spewing, more apologizing, and more reactions
to unintended bruised feelings than anywhere else. Also, have you ever
known any pigs? (The four-legged kind, I mean.) They are delightful
creatures, always grateful and enthusiastic for any little scrap (except
green peppers--for some reason they don't like those). And, they
don't really like slime, they like soil--bit of a difference.
>Life isn't all roses and kisses-without-tongues and it certainly isn't
the way Jane Austin wrote it.
Hmmm...life as roses and kisses--yes that works both ways--roses with
thorns, kisses that hide deceit.
And Jane Austen, Ah Jane...perhaps you're thinking of later writers. Here's
a sample of Jane Austen's wit as seen through one of her letters:
A close friend had recently had a baby that died just after birth. Jane's
comment to another firend? (Paraphrase) "It is no wonder, surely, that the
infant did not survive. It merely needed to take one look at it's
father and the deed was done." Ah, sweet Jane.
>If you want to write something good or even if you just want to thinkproperly
>you have to let the bad squirt into your narrow little mind.
>
As mentioned above, it is more difficult these days to let any good seep
quietly into one's mind. The bad is not squirting, it's gushing, it's
pulverizing, it's all around us, like water it makes up the substantial
part of our existence. Don't keep that mind narrowly focused on the path
decreed by contemporary mass culture. Open up, look around, look to the
past, consider the future, break out of the common mold, try beauty for
a change--you might like it.
- HAG
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Date: Wed, 5 Feb 1992 14:47:49 PST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: JEFFREY
Subject: Going For The Gold
The massive crowd was on it's feet, roaring. The parade
was over, all the countries had passed by the day before,
their contingent of well trained athletes smiling in pride
as their flags snapped smartly in the breeze. Millions
were now watching on television along with the crowd that
had bunched itself at the final target range. The final
race of the Olympic 50 kilometer Winter Biathlon was almost
over.
The athletes had skied cross-country for what seemed like
hours, stopping long enough to pick up their rifles and
fire at the tiny paper targets to accumulate points that,
combined with the lowest elapsed time on the course, would
decide the winner of this event. In a surprise move, the
top Lithuanian and Estonian skiers had bunched themselves
at the front of the final miles leading to the final target
range. They had worked together, each of the men taking
a turn at the front to break the wind for the others, who
drafted behind in the leaders wake, resting before they
took their own turn. In this way the group of 5 skiers had
managed to put quite a distance between themselves and the
top-ranked Norwegians and Swiss, who were battling singly
without cooperation to close an impossible gap.
Now the leaders were coasting into the target range area,
standing up to catch their breath and steady their nerves
for the careful precision shooting that was to follow.
They popped their skis off easily, and went to their places,
picking up the small caliber rifles and settling them com-
fortably into their shoulders.
The English judge was slightly startled when the first
shooter, a Lithuanian, took carefull aim at the target, and
then abruptly swung his rifle around to his right and put
a neat hole in the forehead of the Russian referee in charge
of the time-clock. Blood spattered the snow as the dead
body fell into the snow like a large sack of sand.
The other Lithuanian and one of the Estonian athletes
combined to put four bullets into a Russian judge, and soon
the popping sound of small-bore rifle fire filled the air
as one Russian official or dignitary after another fell under
the hail of bullets. Spectators ran screaming for safety
as a world-wide TV audience stared in horror as the NBC
commentators hid under their desks, seeking cover. Russian
after Russian fell sprawling in the snow, shot in the back
by the expert marksmen who could kill a man with one shot
from a tiny rifle.
Someone whistled a piercing two-note alarm. In unison
the athletes from the newly independent Baltic States
quickly strapped on their skis again and began to coast
downhill, away from the target range. They were still
carrying their rifles. No one tried to stop them. There
were moans, sobs, and screams as the men glided silently
away over the crusty snow for parts unknown. Soon they
were lost to sight.
Hours later, the notes were found in the hotel rooms of
the assassins. They read simply, "So what did you expect
with your Coca-Cola, Chopped Caviar?".
--Jeffrey (Wednesday edition)
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Date: Wed, 5 Feb 1992 23:19:00 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: "If you chose mostly (c)" <H.UNIATZ>
Subject: Look upwards, M.
Let me start again:
Look upwards, M: for fear of being trampled, I've taken to the High Ground,
where, believe me, I'm kite-flying: a balmy breeze blows and there's agoodly
supply of old war-comics to while away my days (when the climate unsuits
itself to vacationedly bathing). Consider this: it's not rage which has
prompted any one (1) of these cyclothimically alexic musings [petty
fruit-flinging, perhaps, but you drive me to it: yr "just due" clause(charred
fragment) decrees that I have had/shall have my smallish inchoate vengeance
(Spycatcher turns Flycatcher; Rector Decrys Imputed Motives)]: such excessof
emotion is uncalled-for (Hope A. Greenberg mightn't like it): Cheating, my
immansuete angel, my slighted love, you (you YOU!) amuse me well. [And, one
day, if I have but world enough and time, you'll get a beautiful,beautifuller,
beautifullest letter (this'll have to suffice for now; I'msubvention-turning);
stick around and see for yourself.] The mobile I've constructed from wire&
tes cliched beaux yeux (still bloodily Smiling, though supposedly cauterised
past poulticing) gently spins in the window (nasty predacious ghoulishness);
a susurrant something -- no, no: something is what Came Up: I must surelymean
"someone" -- watches over me. In time to come, it may serve as crystal
chandelier to illumine "our happy homestead", where you'll do the dishes,
you'll take out the garbage, you'll raise the children (even if notblueeyed)
and I'll have affairs with whomever I like (turn and turn about in a giddy
whirl) while you have affairs (sashays) with me (and me alone). Could you,
my Cheating@nowhere, promise not to engage in uxoricide? to abide by the
contractual clause which specifies that you shall revere H760 as the one
& only godisyrgod? not to quote back at her things which she hasconveniently
relegated to the amnesia-basket? But, no: this asks too much of you; all
those other things you pledged: Philpotts reborn, the Carter antics (yes,
I'm harping): they never materialised. Oh, well: who needs them; I have
your soul. Or, rather, I had your soul; it seems to have sort of mislaid
itself again; Hell&Damnation. "O \c/em jsme to mluvili?": ummm... numai
mult; this ricochets: bardzo przepraszam, I plead puuttuva ymmartamys (such
lovely alcoves! such groovy grammar!). Take comfort: I haven't forgottenthe
script you toiled over: it shall be incumbent upon me to swoon gracefully
at some moment; not in today's installment though: this chapter spotlights
our gallant hero, tracking the Bristol stagecoach while, backstage, our
heroine, prettily flummoxed by the British Rail timetable (complete and
unarailwaybridged (sorry, sorry)), chances a "Prithee, kind stranger" act,
preparatory to holding her weekly wappenschaw on Tyburn Hill. Myself, i got
lost and glumly sank somewhere amidst the intricacies of the opening
paragraphs, but I'm reading (for perspectives, for inconsistencies, for the
record) gamely on, wondering how the author can possibly produce a happy
ending (the detective declares his hand, the villain is unmasked, miladyfalls
from grace and for the enbalmer's page-boy) with all the main charactersdying
so soon (most unorthodox!). What happens when and if the Cheating travado
runs out of words? Who knows; perhaps it may even marry me. Note to self:
"See vicar about career as Go-Go Dancer". No brinkmanship: CHEATING(wiving)
does not exist, H760 (wived) does: her name be hallowed, her kingdom(loaned)
come, her will be done in Vespucciland (Porkopolis) as it never has been in
Sbrhym... or, @least, she smiles @that hope, she smiles @yr smile (more fool
she?), she smiles @yr insouciant prevenance, she smiles @the thought of how
nothing she told you stands -- little you know how little she knows(extensive
and reperible though the record is) of our hero. It might yet be in your
best interests (this cuts no swath) to posit the enemy (who is the Enemy, if
I may not be?) silently espionagitating; take it from there -- in verbiage,
I recant and recount nothing. Oft'times, M, I consider (from above, with
panache) your done-to-death eyes, your self-satisfied grin, your view, your
body&soul (Nonplussed&Jaded), your insolent arrogation of my address(coup
manquee: you'll see...!), your insouciant cajolery (strategics), your
landismyland (where everything's chintz-covered) and I forget that you'renot
supposed to be in love, that I'm not supposed to be in love, that no one
loves anyone. That efficiently cast aside and forgotten, I'll declare,
if I may, independence: "for as long as it takes" has been as long as ittook
to render me inextirpable, for what happens up here, in this cushy eyrie, is
this: you'll say and do just as you like (I'll applaud, on cue) and -- this
is the bit you'll find side-splitting (even though it was the declared aimof
yr eristic one(1)-question/answer gambit) -- I Won't Care.
H. Uniatz (klamca)
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 6 Feb 1992 12:45:00 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: "If you chose mostly (c)" <H.UNIATZ>
Subject: Mother, is it morning yet?
Supplementary note to M: there were, in fact, eight (8) ?'s, and not, as
claimed, seven (7).
Supplementary note to self: "H760, in future, do not, not, NOT post to
lists, to any lists, after 10.00 pm; the mind goes (v.i.)".
H7.
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 6 Feb 1992 12:07:34 -0500
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: <TIMFIELD>
Subject: no shit is good shit
>... The sarcastic and caustic miasma isn't
>underground--it's the main stream...it's all around us...we breathe
>it everyday. Open your eyes and take a sniff--you can't miss it. You're
>just so used to it you don't see it.
You missed the point, sweetheart. My criticism was of people like you
who hold their breath. You are out of touch; you are masturbating on some
illusory cloud of aesthetics, when you should be working in the environment
around you. What can you say of any import when you deny reality? I say
embrace the trivia, the game shows, the death, the MacDonalds, the shit,
for these are the stuff of life whether you like it or not. Suck it in,
baby, that's all I'm saying. I'm not dictating what you spew out.
T.
re: your pigs and Jane Austin reprimand - I'm heartily chastened.
"Pride and Prejudice" is as telling and valid today as it was whenever
it was that that caustic wit took pen to paper.
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 6 Feb 1992 20:07:00 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Castle H760 <H.UNIATZ>
Subject: RE: aesthetics aint dead
"... to counterbalance all of the love, beauty, and grace pouring out of
most word processors ..."
Have a nice day, Tim Field, sweetheart, baby.
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 6 Feb 1992 18:14:01 EST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: "...and then the ice weasels come."<majcher@>
Subject: Re: Look upwards, M.
In-Reply-To: "If you chose mostly (c)"'s message of Wed,
5 Feb 1992 23:19:00 GMT<01GG68G4LUB48Y5BXC@>
oh, stop it.
-M
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